


No Precise Formula

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Prompt Fic, Silly, slice o' case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:53:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One match, no paper, or it doesn't count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Precise Formula

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mazaher, who prompted: "John, Sherlock, and the art and science (respectively) of lighting a fire."

“I can’t believe you’ve managed to strand us in Crowland,” John muttered through chattering teeth as he tried to close the door behind him. “In a howling gale, in a place called the Cow Byre Cottage, no less.”  
  
“It looked fine on the Internet,” Sherlock sniffed from where he was huddled in a sodden heap, fingers flying over the keyboard on his mobile. “Rustic, they said, but you like rustic, or so _you_ said. And it has Internet access, just as they claimed.” Sherlock sniffled again. “Besides, it’s the closest spot to where we’ll need to be tomorrow if we’re to catch our criminals in the act.”  
  
John looked around at the one-room cottage, which clearly wasn’t lying about its lowly origins. He could well believe that the stone-and-plaster-walled hut had started life as a cow byre. What he wasn’t at all convinced of was that this place was actually fit for human habitation. Despite the presence of a double bed in one corner, and a shadowy doorway suggesting some kind of plumbing facilities beyond, it looked barely one step above a ramshackle barn. One bare electric bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling. A gaping cavern in one wall with a blackened grate in the centre and a basket of wood to one side suggested the possibility of a fireplace, or at least a place to set up the camp stove weighing down John’s rucksack if he couldn’t get a fire started. And they’d need a fire, because this place was bloody _freezing_.  
  
With a sigh, John set down his rucksack, hung up his dripping mac on a peg by the door, and got to work.  
  
Chivvying Sherlock into changing into dry clothes – or at least drier than what he currently had on – was less difficult than John expected. Aside from not wanting to put down his mobile, Sherlock made no real objections. He accepted the towel John rummaged out of the bag, and efficiently stripped off his wet gear. He took twice as long as John did in toweling himself dry, though – particularly his hair – so by the time he finished dressing, John was already dry, redressed, and crouched down in front of the fireplace.  
  
“There’s paper in the basket,” Sherlock observed, practically plastering himself to John’s back as he peered at what John was doing. As usual, Sherlock had no sense of personal space when he was interested in something – or perhaps he was just reacting to the cold. It could be hard to tell with Sherlock. “It’ll be faster if - ”  
  
“No paper.” The words were automatic, out of John’s mouth before he could think twice about uttering them.  
  
He felt Sherlock tense behind him, coming alert in a way he hadn’t been a moment previous. “I assure you, John, there is indeed paper in the bottom of the basket. Perhaps you failed to observe it, but it is most definitely there.” He paused, and when he spoke next, the reflexive sarcasm was gone, replaced by curiosity. “Or is it that you refuse to use paper for some reason?”  
  
“Paper is messy; leaves too much ash, makes too much smoke, and often leaves traces that can be used to identify the origin of troops in the area,” John recited calmly while his hands kept busy arranging tinder and small sticks. He had already placed a few larger pieces in back to help direct airflow, and had a few more carefully-chosen pieces ready to layer around the tinder stack once it  
was built up to his satisfaction.  
  
“We’re not in the field, John,” Sherlock pointed out not-so-helpfully. “And I’m cold _now_ , and using paper will get the fire started faster.”  
  
“Not if I do it right.”  
  
“Doing it ‘right’ appears to take more time than simply wadding up a bit of paper.”  
  
John held on to his temper with an effort. “And how many fires have you started, then? And I don’t mean rubbish fires to cause a distraction, or chemistry explosions that scorch a kitchen. I mean campfires, or fires in a fireplace.”  
  
“I have observed many fires being built,” Sherlock retorted stiffly, by which John knew he meant _exactly none, but I refuse to admit it_.  
  
“And I’ve built many fires. So how about we each stick to our own areas of expertise, hm? I’ll start the fire, and you can tell me the precise chemical formula for combustion.”  
  
Sherlock snorted strongly enough that the gust of breath stirred John’s hair. “There is no precise formula for general combustion; there are too many variables in the material being consumed. The general approximation is CxHyOz + O2 \--> CO2 \+ H2O, but I hardly think you really care about that.”  
  
John turned and stared at Sherlock in amazement. “Incredible. I can’t believe you actually knew that right off the top of your head, and yet you still can’t be bothered to remember who the Prime Minister is, or when we’re out of milk.”  
  
Sherlock half-shrugged. “And I can’t believe that you care so much about some supposedly correct method of starting a fire in a fireplace, but it’s evident that you do.” With anyone else, John knew he probably would have added some impatient demand that he get on with it already, in more posh terms of course, but since it was John, Sherlock merely gave him one of those intense, all-curious looks that felt like he was peeling back your flesh in order to ferret out an answer.  
  
“One match, no paper, or it doesn’t count,” John told him.  
  
“I see. And this was well before the Army.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John didn’t volunteer more information, and Sherlock didn’t ask. He merely leaned closer in to John, absorbing every bit of body heat he could. John took the hint and went back to his task.  
  
He hadn’t lost his knack, either. A single match, and a careful bit of blowing, was all it took to spread the fire from the tinder to the smaller bits of kindling, and the fire practically built itself up from there, thanks to John’s careful stacking. Soon he had a proper big blaze going. He and Sherlock sat side-by-side on the hearth, absorbing the warmth and staring at the mesmerizing flicker of the flames. John knew that he should get up, spread out their wet things to try and get them dry, maybe see about a bit of supper, but he couldn’t be bothered just yet.  
  
“It’s a nice fire,” Sherlock volunteered out of nowhere.  
  
John beamed. “Thanks.”  
  
“Since you’re so good at it, I’ll let you start one again in the morning,” Sherlock added with a smirk.  
  
John threw a sock at him.


End file.
